


A Welcome Tenderness

by StripySock



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caring, Fix-It, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:50:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert is not certain where he is or what is happening, but his one constant is Jean Valjean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Welcome Tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to voksen
> 
> For spoilers as to content, please see the end note.

There is room in the bath for one; it is a luxury that Valjean clearly enjoys, if the relaxing of the lines on his face are any clue. If perhaps that was not clear enough for Javert to witness, then surely the sudden pliableness of the other man's limbs would have been, sinking as they did into the water. The water was tolerably warm, if not hot; but then, bucket after bucket of water hauled up flights of stairs rarely maintained an acceptable heat for longer than a few minutes. Valjean is not a lobster, after all, even if his skin is beginning to bear a remarkable resemblance to one.

Javert cannot prevent himself from staring longer than is decent or right, though that thought provokes a little surge of laughter in his breast. What they have done together is not decent. It is certainly not without the possibility of censure. Whether it is wrong, however, Javert is unwilling to say. On this he shall suspend judgement - though he admits that, in this, he is not the best judge.

Certainly the plans he has for Valjean when he is cleansed are not ones that would keep a maiden's cheek free from blushes at the thought. It is with this thought in mind that he tilts forward the final bucket, dampens his lover's hair and rubs his fingers through it. It is rare that this comfortable silence sits between them; all too often brooding thoughts intrude. Then, the silence is jagged: edged with doubt on Javert's part and confusion on Valjean's as to why Javert cannot give thanks for what they have, accept that good can blossom from evil and that pleasure can be drawn even in a life that contains incidents that are painful to recall. Here and now, though, there is peace, there is tranquility, there is only the soft drag of hair through fingers and the occasional brush of fingers against the smooth nape of the neck as Valjean lies back and allows Javert this.

Valjean is like no man that Javert has ever met for taking pleasure in the smallest things of life. What appear to Javert as mere necessities, tools to keep the body in working order, are a source of quiet joy to Valjean, as though deprivation has enhanced their charms for him. He does not merely bathe, he wallows; he does not eat but experiences; to see him, you would believe that the sun on his face is as deep a blessing from God as gold in his pockets. He is no hedonist, he does not seek new worlds, does not play the libertine or the jackal. That could never be in his nature, it is antithetical to him, but what he is given, what he has, he will savour.

Javert can only look on this, grasp at it as though at the sunbeams that touch Valjean on his daily walks, and just as surely have it slip through his fingers. Sometimes he thinks he may have attained it a little: when he catches the tender curve of Valjean's mouth just after he has supped of his tea and feels both the nearness and the impossible distance of the man beside him. It is a glimpse only - but Javert has also been starved, though in different ways, and such glimpses, such touches of warmth are enough. He can warm his hands at the fire that burns deep within the other man, and for the moment not feel his lack.

The water is cooling and Valjean, having shaken off the faint stupour brought on him by the heat and the glossy smell of sandalwood, now washes himself in earnest with no shame or pause, slippery hands gliding over skin, across chest and legs and in between. Javert stills at the sight and feels the speed of his heart increase. He busies himself with the final rinse of water over Valjean's hair, the cooling water rising the goosepimples on his skin, matching the shiver that marches along Javert's spine.

There is a vulnerability to the curve of spine that presents itself to him as Valjean hunches against the water that he mislikes, for he knows Valjean's strength well and fears more his gentleness. He leaves him for the moment to obtain a towel; he will play the manservant in this, if nothing else. Valjean welcomes the rough rasp of cloth, his smile distinct enough that Javert can hardly breathe for what he longs to do.

In the bedroom the white bed is neatly made by unseen hands and the air is golden with the heavy light of late afternoon, the residual heat of the day warming the air. Valjean, now clad in a soft robe, perches upon the side of the bed and looks at Javert with calm love. Javert leans on the doorframe and looks at the room, noting every comfort. He wants to appreciate them as Valjean does but can't bring himself to do so; all his attention is taken up by the man who entices him so. Even so, there are subtle changes around them that should be collected as evidence in this evergrowing certainty he possesses that something is wrong, that this is not what should be. That perhaps this is not.

Then Valjean stands and, with the quiet certainty of a man who believes himself to be in the possession of love, strides forward to meet him halfway; to pull him to the bed that now is larger, wider, whiter, softer. Javert does not know when their lips meet, only that they do, and that the tenderness rocks him to the centre of his being in a way that he cannot name, as though it has wedged a tendril into his heart and is cracking it open, a very little at a time.

Everything that is wrong recedes for the moment at the touch of Valjean's hand against his face and Javert closes his eyes for long seconds, allowing himself to be drawn in. Outside it rains, soft refreshing rain, a musical patter against the window panes, mingling with the sun which shines on. It has been a very long afternoon, Javert thinks. Then Valjean tugs at his cravat, unties it with hands that are knowing and strong, and Javert wonders for a brief second when he put a cravat on at all. He aids Valjean's deft hands, strips himself and watches as Valjean disrobes until there is nothing between them but air and space.

And then there is no longer even that; they press against each other, chest against chest, and Javert cannot stand it, cannot live with the uncertainty. There is only this, this is all that is real, the rest is ephemeral, and suddenly he is desperate. Need saturates him, frightening and alien, pounding through his blood, the urge to shut everything out of his senses bar Valjean. He has never felt like this; he blames the splitting of his heart, the way the room wavers at the corners of his eyes. This is all that is real. He knows on some level that his hands are gripping painfully at Valjean's frame, but the other man does not protest, does not waver, just draws him closer.

If Javert were another man he would ask for reassurance, would crave words, anchoring, understanding. But he is Javert and it is through actions, not words, that he understands, like a blind man who relies on touch to guide his way. There is no tenderness now when they fall onto the bed and lie prick-to-prick, frotting against each other desperately, no finesse or control, and it is not enough, is never enough.

Javert needs the consumption, the terrifying bonfire of complete absorption; needs there to be nothing else in his world but only the taste of the salt on Valjean's skin, the scent of sandalwood and clean flesh, the sight of the skin that is still marked by scars but now stretches easy and fluid as he bends. He needs to hear only the ragged gasps that Valjean can sometimes be persuaded to part with when they do this - and beneath his hands he wants the texture of Valjean's hair, the deceptive softness of the skin that shields the hardness of his prick, the warm give of his thighs as Javert slides between.

Valjean knows him better than he knows himself in moods like this; he sprawls across the bed and turns his face into the pillow not from shame but for the sake of comfort. He is strength and power laid out before Javert, the bend of his knees and the long expanse of his back inviting touch, his arms knotted and muscular: arms that have held Javert fast now open and spread, vulnerable and yet not fearful, and Javert takes the invitation that has been offered.

This, which once was so strange, so foreign, to his experience, is easy now; and, filled with a sudden greed, a sudden hunger, he buries his face against the firmness of Valjean's back, the unrelenting sweep of muscle and strength beneath his fingertips.  As though in response, the rain falls harder outside, pounding and battering itself against the windows. The room darkens a little, as though finally the sun has given up the fight.  The warmth remains, though Javert isn't sure if that is not merely his proximity to Valjean, who is heated through and through, who warms Javert like nothing else.

He scatters rough kisses against Valjean's back, peppered between strong shoulderblades, down the arch of his spine, as though he desires nothing more than to cover every inch of his body and emblazon himself on the man who lies here before him. It is not his better nature that prevents him from sinking his teeth into Valjean's back; only the knowledge of the petty ephemerality of any such marks that he may leave. They will not last, will not endure, will be wiped clean as though they never existed, and that knowledge twists in his gut, for it is never enough.

Valjean sighs; outside, thunder cracks loudly. Javert had seen no lightning, not buried so close to Valjean, but he cannot resist this. His hands are fixed on the strength of Valjean's thighs; he is reluctant to move, savouring the movement of his muscles, but he slides them upwards, firmly and relentlessly, takes a handful of Valjean's arse within his grasp, sinks his fingers in. Valjean shudders, a long shiver that flexes down his back. He makes no protest and Javert cannot stop, not when this is offered. They have done this so many times in so many different ways, but each time it feels new, fresh, almost pure, like linen after washing day and good drying weather.

There is nothing pure in what he does next; nothing pure in the line he traces between Valjean's buttocks, pressing deeper.  There is nothing of the man he had once been in the creature that presses itself against that tempting flesh, moulding it within his hands. With the meagre rags of gentleness that he had fought to excise from his own nature, he softens minutely, kisses the clean fresh skin, tasting only the sandalwood oil that Valjean favoured. As though it were the most natural thing in the world, he nudges the twin curves apart, and with shaking hands holds Valjean like that, sensing no protest or shock in the body underneath him, only a sudden untensing as though Valjean merely waits for him.

The angle is awkward; he is almost a little amused at the thought that he could complain of such a thing at such a time, but with his customary decision he solves the problem with the simple application of force and movement. When Valjean is adequately spread to his gaze he feels a hot pulsing tinge of need twine its way through his body; not merely want, but a desire that cannot be thwarted. Here is what he seeks: somewhere to bury himself, to take pleasure in oblivion, in the utter suffusion of his senses that he craves so desperately. His control is tightly won but hardly held, clutched to his bosom as though it were only a fleeting illusion, and he needs, bone-deep, to push Valjean to the edge that Javert has always walked.

He bends his head to his self appointed task, gently laves the skin with his tongue, feels the fleeting tension that quickens Valjean's strength, but does not cease his ministrations. Soon enough Valjean relaxes once more and Javert rewards him with the gentlest of kisses pressed to the most vulnerable part of his body. He does not overstep his bounds. His movements are slow and methodical, thorough enough that he misses nothing; he takes his time before he even dares press against the tightness that he has before breached with his prick, but never with his tongue.

Valjean is hot under his mouth and hands still and, when Javert finally dares to open him up and press his tongue within the tightness of his body, within the tiny pinkness of his most secret places, Valjean moans, a deep shivering echo chasing it through his throat as though his pleasure and expression are doubled, and his fingers curl within the white counterpane spread upon the bed.

Javert closes his eyes and pushes deeper, feels the helpless clutch of Valjean's body around him, heated and elemental, torn down to basics.  He cannot think of anything else, cannot imagine doing anything other than this: the small swipes of his tongue against his entrance, the plunge within, no finesse or thought behind it, driven only by instinct and need. His own hips push against the bed but it is a dull muted shimmer, one that he can ignore; it is mere pleasure, while this, what he does now, is purpose. He is herded by it but cannot imagine wanting anything elsewise. There is nothing for him but this, the sweet unfolding and opening of Valjean before him, the dismantling of him one precious secret at a time.

It must be here; somewhere amongst the intimacies and secrecies must be the answers that Javert craves, the need he seeks out. Happiness, his tongue says as it seeks further, driving hoarse gutteral sounds from Valjean's throat, as it retreats and then conquers again.   It is hidden inside him, tucked deep within Valjean's heart: his brow is smooth, his eyes clear, he does not lack for joy; it is this secret that Javert wishes to extract in the only way he knows how. This is how he searches for it, how he clutches at the possibility, how every moment that he spends down here between Valjean's thighs making him cry out in tones that could wake the dead makes him ever more certain that the answers he seeks are encased somewhere within this man.

When he finally ceases for the moment, his jaw is sore and his chin is slick from his enthusiasm. Valjean is the picture of debauchery, his hole opened and slick from Javert's tongue, tempting enough that he wishes nothing more than to devour him again from the inside out before he slides his prick home, sheaths himself in that willing body. Tremors run down Valjean's thighs as if he cannot help them, as if his body, too, betrays him, and Javert can resist no more. He bends and passes his tongue over the slickened flesh as though he has done this a thousand times, blows a little cool air and then soothes with warmth until Valjean's words reconcile themselves to something intelligible.

"Please, Javert," he says. There is yearning in his voice; he sounds as though even now he is not sure what he asks for or how it may be fulfilled. Javert keeps at his task but heeds the words. He presses his own fingers into his aching mouth, dampening them as best as he can. When next his tongue essays an attempt on Valjean, his finger keeps it company, presses in deep and perfect, and Javert marvels at how easily it attains its goal.  He lingers more firmly on the outside of Valjean's entrance, a second finger dipping in, sure and slick; when he licks around them where they are buried deep within Valjean, he elicits, as he intended, the same sweet sounds.

Valjean is shaking apart underneath him, and suddenly, abruptly, Javert cannot wait any longer. He sees nothing but Valjean; tastes, smells, hears, touches nothing but him. This is sufficient. Now he needs to be closer, needs to wring from him every drop of pleasure, to repay with interest what he has given Javert. Not happiness, perhaps - the secret to that is locked inside Valjean's heart - but pleasure, certainly.  Valjean anticipates him in this as in all else. He hoists himself shakily up a little, his hard prick, trapped between his belly and the counterpane, large and red and slick in Javert's hand as he touches.

"May I?" he asks, a habit still not lost, and Valjean nods, spreads himself a little wider, leaves himself ready and open for Javert, who deems Valjean ready enough for what will come - though he still anoints himself with oil.  Another mystery, he thinks hazily, how the pot is never emptied, but one he loses sight of as he touches himself for the first time, smooths himself with oil.  He slides two fingers briefly back into Valjean for the pleasure of hearing him gasp, and then as quickly withdraws them, and presses the blunt head of his prick there in their place. Again the angle is not perfect, but the slow slide, the pressing in of his prick against Valjean's tender heat, that is.

The pressure around him is blindingly good; he inhales a gasp that feels so rough against his throat that he wonders if he has been screaming. It had taken them a thousand days to do this, and a thousand times a thousand days for Javert to accustom himself to this search, this seek and find that they play together. Now it is almost easy to push in deep, to wring worshipful sounds from Valjean - a man who will give until the skin is flayed from his back, but who cannot kneel unless it is for love.

Javert bites his lip deeply at the feel of flesh so tight around him, the smooth sway of Valjean's back before him, the sensation that floods through him and blinds his senses. The wavering light from the world outside spills across them both as Javert pushes in and takes his pleasure, thrusts as hard and deep as he can until every inch of him is inside. He cannot stop the swift movement of his hips from that moment on, cannot cease the groans that spill from his mouth and echo in the empty room.

"What do you see?" he asks. "What do you feel, Valjean?"

At first Valjean's only answer is a groan, and then, as Javert gentles his strokes he surfaces for a moment, he speaks. "There is snow outside," he gasps, "and a fire within, but I cannot tell if the warmth is from the grate or from you," and then he is silent once more. Outside the rain falls relentlessly, though the shadows in the room are from a sun's cast rays.

Javert turns to his task once more, confirmed as he has been a thousand times. He has watched his hands slough the skin of his past life; time and time again he has found himself in this room with Valjean, they have fought ten thousand times or more - he has long forgotten - and when fighting failed, they turned to talk, and from talk to this. He presses dry lips to the skin before him and once again increases his speed and strength, tears cries from Valjean that surely he would not give for anything else. He cannot explain it; can only swallow himself up in the body before him and beg reprieve for another day.

He cannot decide how this can be, that he can have so much pleasure and yet still strive for so much more. He knows he cannot be certain even that Valjean is real, but he does not think he could dream him; does not think he could have invented a man like this from what he had thought 24601 to be.  He could not have given him his tender happiness nor his delight in small things: these are not things that are in Javert to give or, perhaps, to even imagine. If he had been asked to form joy, it would not have been this. And yet, now that he knows it, it is all that it can be.

He shakes himself from his thoughts as Valjean shudders underneath him and resumes his desperate press into the other man, seeking once more to lose himself with that touch, within the desire that thuds through his veins and has only one outlet. The vitality of the feeling that he has been granted communicates itself within his urgent thrusts and Valjean rises to meet him with all the unconscious power of his frame, all the sweetness of his nature. He presses back as vigorously as any man could wish, his head sunk between his shoulders, not as though he wishes to stifle the sounds he makes, but as though the feelings that Javert rouses in him are too much to bear.

Javert pulls his hips back a little more, leaves Valjean free to take his prick in hand and stroke himself. He is slippery wet from his pleasure already, his muscles tensing unconsciously in his arms, riveting Javert’s eyes to the extraordinary will that allows Valjean to take his pleasure in such a matter of fact fashion; to the willingness to please and be pleased that he so often shows, that over and over amazes Javert and renders him helpless to meet such complacence with a similar fortitude of his own.

Without words to voice this he dips his head and briefly presses it against Valjean's living warmth before he slides from him completely, leaving him empty and wanting for brief seconds before again he presses back home, filling him once more.

His strokes are gentle yet exacting; he practices upon Valjean the same arts that had been practiced upon himself and yielded results every time. The man beneath him has lost all quality of speech; Javert, too, is fast approaching the point where there can be nothing left but the sheer arching pleasure of fucking deeper into the willing body beneath and pouring himself body and soul into what he does. He steadies himself on the cool linen of the bed, pushing relentlessly in again and again, until their rhythm echoes that of the world around them, as though what they do is natural and expected. Javert approaches the peak faster than he had meant to; thrusts himself tight against Valjean's yielding presence, buries himself within and then, with a sudden swell of pleasure, lets himself finish; lets himself come within him, bends his head to rest against the solid back, tries to bestill himself, to cease his shaking.

It is a pure moment in and of itself, every thought driven from his mind, nothing left but the unbearably intimate closeness between himself and Valjean as he shudders to completion, feels his body yield and fold and tumble into Valjean, and is lost for long moments to sense or awareness. When he comes back to himself, he is still hard, still deep, and Valjean is tightening around him.  Valjean's fist is busy around his own prick; Javert joins his fingers to the task, allows himself to slip forth as he caresses the hardness and Valjean, with an almost silent gasp, tumbles into that same understanding.

With shaking hands, Javert dips his handkerchief in the water-jug that rests on the stand and, after a fashion, bathes himself and Valjean before weariness can seize his limbs.  He shuts his eyes with a sigh that speaks of everything that he cannot. His body gently cools in the air, the sweat of exertion now cold on his skin, and yet another deeper matter demands his attention.

He had often prided himself on his penetration, on his capacity to do his job and to do it well.  Not hubris such as God might condemn, but a smaller gentler feeling of satisfaction in his work.  Yet that fails him now; still he cannot explain the innumerable oddities of what occurs between himself and Valjean on these occasions.  And, however hard he thinks on it, still the answers fail to satisfy.

He knows very well that he, at least, is dead. Those memories have not disappeared, though it feels so very long ago, years, decades, centuries as time passes here. He had not started counting until Valjean arrived and the whole world opened up; he had not left the confines of his room that looked so much like his old watch-house.  Night after night he had laboured over reports by candle-light, the windows reflecting only darkness back at him, the darkness where he had fallen and failed. The print was so small it strained his eyes, the crimes were petty: the stealing, the lies, the word of one man who called himself honest against another man who swore to his own innocence. There was nothing to relieve the tedium or alleviate the boredom of every ugly - minor - sin of human nature set in black and white.

Then, one day, he had opened up the door that was opposite his desk, on what impulse he had not known, and there before him had stood a man bewildered in the youthfulness of his skin, doubting as to the veracity of his experience, and every line about him had proclaimed Valjean, Madeleine, 24601, Fauchelevent, whatever name he chose to take.

And yet, even if through some intervention, some Godly decree, they share a heaven or a hell (Javert has not discounted this possibility) so many things are left unanswered. Valjean does not see what he sees, that is certain. Javert cannot be sure of anything save the moments that they spend skin to skin. Then he can be sure that their experiences match; that, regardless of the room or the weather or the year or their seeming ages,  the minutes they spend with each other are real. Every detail of them tallies, and when he returns to his room away from Valjean he often broods on what it can mean. Why must he be exiled once more, what has he not done to deserve the right to stay?

Now as they lie here, as close as any two people may be, Javert finds his thoughts returning to the imponderable problem with which he has been set. In life he had paid his lip-service to religion, had believed as any man might believe - but God had not been his law except on those matters where He had entered the law books. Now he finds himself regretting that he had not studied more deeply on the issue - surely it would have shed some light on his present situation.

He cannot imagine what cause requires both him and Valjean to so constantly stumble across each other in such a fashion, but the truth remains that they do. When Valjean exits through the door, he disappears elsewhere; when Javert follows him through, he finds himself back in his own small, cramped office where still the candles flicker and the innumerable ill-deeds of the populace require his unending attention. There are no other doors nor windows and he is forced to conclude that for Valjean the door leads elsewhere.

In the beginning his exit had taken him to a parlour: well appointed, if a trifle fussy in its details, where Valjean had appeared dazed and monosyllabic. Javert had assumed - not unreasonably, he thought,  even now - that Valjean had been delivered to Javert as a source of torment, the living ambiguity between the force of the law and the just-opening awareness of the world beyond that law, and the words that had passed between them had been harsh.

Yet even as he retreated to his books, to the close-set, narrowly printed dry tales of the wicked, he had not been able to resist returning again and again to the only living face which he had been greeted with in his time. There had been arguments, often vicious, and more than once Javert had vowed not to return - although even aside from Valjean's presence there were other comforts to be had. The parlour had changed imperceptibly over time; coffee and tea had often found their place steaming on the minute side table; a fire found itself within the grate; and then, over time, it had shifted even more, until when Valjean and Javert's wishes coincided there would be a bedroom to be found, with a bathing chamber attached.

Still, at the end of their time together they must always leave. And if, over time, Javert has grown to wish it were not so, then that is his business and he will not confess to such feelings. Such speculation as he indulges in is of no use, he knows this, and yet still he gives into temptation and reaps the small clues with which during life he had been accustomed to piecing together to rout criminals.  There is no framework to fit it to, but he cannot resist attempting to do so anyway.

There are, however, some slippery facts on which he can form the bones of a case:  He is dead and Valjean - he can be almost certain - is also so. They are condemned or blessed with each other's company, but, from sundry things Valjean has said, Javert surmises that Valjean has other acquaintances here, other business. He cannot be sure of the origin of the feelings that this inspires within himself, who is alone apart from these brief meetings.

He seeks, in their time together, to pinpoint the source of Valjean's love, his happiness, his joy, but however close he thinks he may get, however near such understanding may be, it is never fulfilled.  It hovers perpetually out of reach, too organic to be replicated, too complex to mimic.  There is a hazy thought in the depths of his mind that, if he would escape the isolation imposed upon him, this love is something he must understand.

It is not something Valjean can aid him with. Sometimes he thinks - when Valjean kisses him, when he presses adoration and care on him from the outside, when he buries himself home within Javert or yields his own body to Javert to be enjoyed - that there is something he is trying to tell him; something that cannot be expressed in words, or which Valjean is not allowed to say. He has found these compulsions on himself as well from time to time and recognises their power, though he has not given up hope; he knows how insidious despair can be.

Once he had allowed himself to be overcome, allowed himself to fall; with that ghastly memory still colouring all of his actions, he feels justified in doubting all around him. In the life that he had led, he had been told many times by every authority that there was no space in heaven for a suicide, no room for one who had despaired and given up on salvation.

It eats away at him like a canker that cannot be cured by his reason. He does not know why he is here; whether this is some hellish ante-room that Valjean is sharing with him before true judgement comes their way or if this is his final resting place (if resting place it can be called). Above all, he cannot understand why, whatever the reason, wherever they are, Jean Valjean is there at all.

When he turns his head a little he can see Valjean's dark hair and the straight line of his jaw as he gazes placidly at the ceiling.  He is overcome for sudden seconds with a helpless longing that twists his gut and seethes inside him, a longing with no outlet that sits heavy and sick and unmentioned. It is comparable in intensity to his need for answers and he begins to think they come from the same place within him, an interior question that will be granted no cessation.

He begins to think he should leave, return to his room and begin once again the onerous task that he has been set by persons unknown. He cannot stay - no, he _may_  not stay, he corrects himself harshly. Outside the room he thinks he hears a child giggle, lighthearted and merry, and when he turns his gaze to the window the rain has ceased. "What do you see?" he asks again, for if he did not then it would be a softening against his own sins.

Valjean does not turn towards the window. Instead he turns towards Javert; there is faint longing in his gaze, as though what he sees is not enough and he wants more. Javert shrinks internally from his gaze, though he does not flinch nor turn away. The aching curl of his own insufficiency threads through him once more; he schools himself to pride, to that iron purpose that had at least served him steadily during life - if not, perhaps, _well._   Memory and thought gnaw within him, feeding on the doubts that have increased to innumerable ranks:  _look what came of your pride and purpose, Javert._

He is distracted by the rough press of lips against his face, misaimed as though it matters not where the kiss lands, only that it does. "You," is the answer.  Now Valjean looms over him and there is knowledge in his eyes that cannot be spoken, though clearly he wills Javert to take it. The next kiss is on startled lips.

Javert stills briefly before he presses back, slow and in keeping with the way they have touched this afternoon, long and thoughtful; a sweet touch, almost sedate in its completeness.  For all he has felt during this visit, for all he has sought with flesh against flesh and hungry devouring impatience, he feels closest now to that secret of Valjean's happiness.

He hears the giggle again, close enough that the child could be in the room, and Valjean pauses. "I should go," he says, sadness in his face.

Javert does not protest, will not lay himself quite so bare. Valjean is the one thing he can claim a part of in this strange new world but he will not begrudge the other man the companionship of whatever or whoever else he has.  Instead he busies himself with dressing.  When he looks up, Valjean is dressed also and waiting by the door, a hand extended. "For my sake, Javert," he asks steadily, "please try to come with me?

His eyes are full of hope and Javert cannot resist him. Once he would have trampled on naive hopes, on fragile foolish dreams that were but the placatory bandages for feeble minds; now he takes Valjean's hand although he does not share his belief. For a moment he almost makes it - he can see beyond Valjean, a long empty corridor, a flash of brightly lit hair, polish heavy in the air. Then they are wrenched apart and Javert is returned to his office.

 

It always seems smaller and darker after he has been away for a bit; the walls close in a little tighter and the candles have burnt low so that the shadows thrown against the wall seem to move in their own distinct ways as the light gutters and wavers.  Javert settles in his appointed place, opens up his book and bends his head once again to the neverending task that faces him. He has no choice in this.

His eyes strain closer as the page blurs before him and the names and crimes run into each other. This one has stolen, that one has perjured himself, this one has struck an officer of the law, and yet all the flame of feeling had died in him long ago. There is something to be learned here, he supposes, but he cannot conjure a possible moral. Instead he dreams of the warmth and light on the other side of the door.

Before his mind's eye the hallway opens once more: smooth wooden floors in front of him, lit by afternoon sun, the momentary glimpse of golden hair at the other end, the sound of laughter in the air. Down that corridor Valjean advances; though his mind does not exile him, Javert is is barred from following. There is an impenetrable barrier and his utmost strength is not enough to push past it.

The pen has dropped from his fingers, the ink spattered itself wantonly across his papers.  He passes a hand across his face wearily. Even had he required sleep in this place, he had already rested with Valjean earlier - yet all inclination has left him to partake in this makework.  Heedless for once of his duty, he leans forward and allows himself to gaze at the lone door. As though spurred on by his dreaming, as if something had sensed something different in his contemplation, the door swings open and Javert stares at it in surprise.

There is no counting time here, of course, but this is unusual - two such opportunities to leave his work so close together. Not daring to question his sudden luck, he abandons the inky register of wrongdoing and with swift steps reaches the door, then hesitates.  The space that unfolds before him is not the passageway he had glimpsed before, nor is it the parlour where he meets Valjean - and Valjean is nowhere to be seen.  Instead before him there is a kitchen, spacious and airy, copper pans gleaming and bright, the stove well used, the table scrubbed to a state of high cleanliness. All around there are the touches of habitation, clear signs of occupation, and yet there was not a soul about.

Cautiously Javert ventures in.  He looks back only once at his barren lonely desk, then steps closer to the windows where they stand thrown open to the sun and the air, the sweet scent of thyme blowing in. When he looks out he hears first the murmur of voices, then sees - at last - Valjean, kneeling beside an elderly man with an open and honest mien in the midst of a herb garden, conversing quietly as they tend the plants.

Javert knows instinctively they will not hear if he speaks, but just as he begins to draw back their words seize his attention. "I could not bring him past the door," Valjean is saying, his voice heavy and sad. "How much longer must I wait?"

"It is not a question of you," the other man says. "He must make that step himself. You may show him the way, but you cannot oblige him to change - and change he must to be happy here. Your example must be his example--" and he pauses to examine a leaf carefully.

Javert steps back until he can no longer hear them and presses blunt fingertips into his palms. Once again he has failed, as too often he had in life, and the knowledge weighs heavily on him. The separation that he has so learnt to regret is his own fault; he can no nothing to remedy it if he does not know what he must do to change. The kitchen no longer seems so homely and welcoming.

He looks back at his own small dark chamber and beats a retreat that shames him, though for the first time he leaves the door open.

 

In the days that follow Javert often glances up from his desk to the still-open door, drinking in the sight of the world outside. Sometimes he ventures in, enjoys the warmth and the homeliness of the place. Often the air is rich with the smell of good cooking; more than once he hears voices close by, through the windows and outside the doors, although no-one ever enters while he is present. He once, in a fit of hope, attempts to open the door that led to the garden, but it is firmly shut: clearly it is not yet allowed him. Still this is more than he had expected, and he accepts it for what it is.

He has not seen Valjean since that brief glimpse in the window over the herb garden, and the loss gnaws at him. For all the quiet delight of the new world opening up for him, in however small a fashion, he would put it aside without regret for the chance to see Valjean again.  He closes the door for long seconds, then re-opens it in the hope of finding the bedroom or the parlour, yet still the kitchen greets him.

Time he has in abundance; time enough to slowly and painstakingly tease out the threads of what he so misses about Valjean.  He ends up with scratchy lists that read oddly even to himself, lined with his failure to once again pinpoint the heart of the man he has now been so close to for so long in so many different ways.

He does not expect - has never expected - that Valjean would attempt to reach him and yet when firm hands clasp his shoulders and Valjean is there, face open and joyful, Javert feels not surprise but an answering joy rising inside him.  It is untended and unthought of and yet now it crawls inside his chest and he knows it for what it is. If it is not so distinct as Valjean's, it is more than Javert has ever felt in life; it had once seemed, in his darkest moments, an impossibility that any such feeling could exist.

"You came," Javert says, and it is no question.

He stands and lets Valjean embrace him; he enfolds Valjean within his own arms. "I never left," Valjean says gently.  "I have seen you, though you have not seen me."

Javert stills.  "What do you see now?" he asks as the last of the candles gutter out within his room, leaving only an arching, swooping swathe of black sky around them, pinpricked with the tiniest sparks of light, cut by the sunlight of the open door.

Valjean turns to the door. "Home," he says quietly.  "Will you come with me, Javert?" And then, as if sensing the hesitation and the doubt that still Javert feels, he adds, "It need only be a room at a time. But every step is one step closer, every room is a battle won, and we have all the time in the world.

Javert has never counted himself lacking in courage and does not intend to start doing so now. With bold strides to conceal his doubt, with Valjean at his side, with the remnants of his old fears still clinging to him, he leaves the dark behind and takes a step closer to heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> Content: both Valjean and Javert are dead and in the afterlife.
> 
> Feedback/concrit welcomed.


End file.
